


Cold Snap

by TheBrokaryotes



Series: It's so fluffy I'm gonna die [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sick Character, Sickfic, and hes a poor little puffball of sadness, and hes still tryna do stuff, and kags is like, hinata catches a cold, its a sick fic!!!!, lots and lots of fluff, this is so bad why are you reading this, wtf youre such an idiot let me lOVE YOU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrokaryotes/pseuds/TheBrokaryotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hinata catches a cold and Kageyama has to try his hardest not to be annoyed with the fact that he’s still trying to do stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Snap

**Author's Note:**

> BROS hello  
> t H IS TOO K WAY TOo LONG TO F I NI.SH  
> ive been doing this for 3 weeks dear god  
> pls enjoy ill give you a cookie  
> thank  
> <3  
> Playlist for this fic:  
> 1 Break the Distance by Ashton Edminster (?)  
> 2 Feel Good Inc. Cover by Celia Pavey  
> 3 Hospital Flowers by Owl City  
> 4 Plant Life by Owl City  
> 5 The Yacht Club by Owl City  
> 6 Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson  
> 7 Lucky by Jason Mraz, ft Colbie Caillat  
> 8 Sleeping With A Friend by Neon Trees  
> 9 Counting Stars by OneRepublic

\--

_Please take a long hard look at your textbook,_

_Because I'm history._

\--Cave In, Owl City

\--

“You’re sick.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Hinata sounds like he wants to retort again, but his dog-like hacking answers for him instead, solidifying Kageyama’s point. The pair walk along the sidewalk to the club room, the unusually chilly April wind nipping at their heels and ruffling Hinata’s already-gross hair.

Hinata’s sunshine reserves were at an all time low today; he wasn’t radiant, nor exuberant or playful as he usually was. He walked about with a drag in his step unbefitting for a human incarnation of a sunflower, dark circles under his eyes and a swell in his voice that made it sound like he was trying to talk with a bubble in his throat. He was distant, too, and nonresponsive, like interaction pained him, and the energy it took to make eye contact was just too high a price to pay.

In short, he was sick. Even an idiot like Kageyama could tell that he was sick. Hardy little hell we was, however, he was determined to suck it up and go to practice that evening.

“Did you take medicine?” Kageyama asks, trying not to sound accusative and failing epicly.

Hinata scowls at the air that laps at his rosy cheeks and pinches at his already-clogged nose. “No,” he murmurs, a soft _buh_ sound lacing the noise that would have been cute if he didn’t look like a bruised kumquat.

“Why not?” Kageyama says with more acrimony than Hinata deserves. “Why walk around like an actual zombie when you could have alleviated some of this _funk_ with medicine?”

Hinata draws his shoulders in defensively, half-shrugging. “I dunno. I don’t like medicine.” Another concatenation of coughing ensues, and even Hinata’s jacket can’t muffle the groan of pain that drags from his throat into the world.

Kageyama wants to smack him upside the head, but he looks like he might disintegrate if someone were to even touch him, so he refrains.

As if sensing the exasperation in his silence, Hinata nudges Kageyama weakly, trying to smile. “It’s 50% environment, Kageyama. Once I’m on the court, I’ll be fine.”

“No, once you’re on the court, you’re gonna be so sluggish that you’ll miss a serve, get punted with a volleyball, and then feel bad for two reasons.”

Rolling his eyes, the red-head nudges the other again, and they both remain silent until they reach the gymnasium. Kageyama’s stomach drops when even Suga’s bright greeting isn’t enough to revitalize Hinata in the slightest.

\--

Kageyama wishes his foresight wasn’t so flawless all the damn time.

Not five minutes after he gets changed and steps onto the court, Hinata is sprawled on the linoleum, unmoving and clutching at his face after a particularly aggressive serve goes awry.

Kageyama didn’t so much mind that his prophecy had been fulfilled. He did mind, however, that he was the one that had brought it to truth.

As if the guilt gnawing at his gut wasn’t enough to make him regret every decision he’s ever made, Suga had even shot him something sickeningly close to a dirty look, which just makes him want to drop to his knees and atone for his sins right then and there.

Hinata is reluctant to let on that he hasn’t been in top condition for the whole day, but Suga is much, much smarter than Kageyama, so he’d figured that out already. He ushers him off the court, and though Kageyama reverts back to his usual jaded self, he can’t help but let his gaze train on Hinata as Suga seats their decoy on the bench by the side of the court, hand pressed against the other’s forehead. _He’s our mother hen,_ Kageyama muses.

A light bark from Daichi kicks Kageyama’s head back into the game, and he focuses his energy on directing his serves to Noya, though he can’t help noticing it when Suga guides Hinata off the court with an arm across his shoulders to steer the poor wilted flower outside, Tanaka trailing closely behind to monitor his self-proclaimed protégé, but returning soon after alone. 

Kageyama isn’t quite sure why, but his mind wanders after that, tosses growing less and less accurate as the minutes crawl by. After a particularly bad throw catches Asahi in the shoulder, and Noya accuses Kageyama of actually aiming for his teammates, Daichi calls for a fifteen minute break.

Kageyama doesn’t like the way the captain casts a look in his direction as he does so.

\--

Kageyama feels his feet itching to take him to the club room, wanting to know if Hinata is alright. To his surprise, when he opens to the door to the gym, Suga is standing there, handsome amber eyes wide with mild surprise.

“Is Hinata okay?” Kageyama asks, piqued by his own eagerness. Suga blinks, then just smiles at him, although somewhere behind his honey-brown gaze there’s almost a sense of apprehensive inquisitiveness, as though he thought Kageyama wanted specifically to punt Hinata in the face with a volleyball again. Which, to be fair, was entirely feasible.

“He’ll be fine, he just needs to rest a little bit, that’s all. He wasn’t feeling well to begin with today, anyway.”

For some strange reason, Kageyama felt spurned that Hinata had been openly honest about being sick with Suga and not him. It wasn’t surprising, though, so he couldn’t imagine why. “Shouldn’t he go home, then?” he asks.

“I told him I didn’t think it was a great idea for him to try and ride his bike home in his condition, that it might be better for one of us to escort him and make sure he gets back safely.”

There’s an unwelcome lump in Kageyama’s throat that he doesn’t think he could explain if he tried as he prepares himself to ask the first thing that had jumped into his head, random and moronic.

“Do you think it would be alright if I took him home?”

Despite probably still being peeved with Kageyama for injuring one of his brood, Suga pauses, and then grins in a manner that unsettles his taller teammate more than it should, shrugging innocently. “If you would like to, yes. I’ll tell Daichi so.”

The surge of elation in Kageyama’s chest did not sit quite well with the pitted disquietude in his stomach. The two emotions grapple as he thanks Suga a bit too much.

Suga’s laugh is elfish and sweet as he tries to subdue his underclassman’s thanks. “Maybe you can take this time to apologize then, eh?” he says affably, suggestion that would normally be taken as passive aggression understood by Kageyama to only be spoken with good intention. They part ways, Kageyama stopping to gather his duffel bag and discreetly pull on sweatpants over top of his shorts.

Hinata is lying on the little bench across from the threshold when Kageyama enters, turned over onto his side with his back to the door. He looks small, smaller than normal, and withered. A bit of light from the door opening flashes a yellow beam across the room, streaking his hair with brightness, but its ephemeral, as Kageyama shuts the door quickly.

Unmoving, the decoy looks dead, but as Kageyama stands awkwardly and tries to figure out how to rouse him, he stirs, tiny groans lacing a sigh as he turns his head to look over his shoulder with an acerbic expression.

“What?” he garbles thickly, shifting his shoulder to wipe some drool that had already started coagulating at the corner of his mouth.

Kageyama grows stiff, shoulders tensing defensively. “Suga-san...said I should take you home.”

A blink. “What?”

“He said it isn’t a good idea for you to ride your bike home, that someone should escort you.” 

Hinata blinks again, before relaxing a little and shifting over, swinging his legs out with some effort and standing up. “Fine. Take me home. I want to go eat rice and die.”

Kageyama can’t keep from smirking a little. If only he could do that, too.

“He also said that I should take this time to apologize for slamming a volleyball into your forehead.”

“...are you gunna?”

“No.”

Now it’s Hinata’s turn to try and grin, but when a laugh bubbles up in his throat, its suffocated immediately by coughing, so he remains stagnant, smile dismal.

“At least your silence means you’re regretful, Kageyama-kun.”

“Shut up and get up, sick dumbass.”

\--

“You’re seriously heavy.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are. You weigh like a million pounds.”

“You just have girl arms.”

“Girl arms that can punt your face with a volleyball.”

“Shut up and walk slower, _Baka_ -geyama.”

Kageyama wasn’t lying; as small as he was, when he was this lethargic, Hinata was heavy as hell. He walked insufferably slow, like his feet were made of lead, and he leaned a good bit of his weight on Kageyama sometimes as they walked up hills. Sometimes he walked solo, but he usually ended up tripping. It didn’t help in Kageyama’s case, either, that he had half-volunteered / half-was-forced-to steer Hinata’s bike too.

“Are you doing this to spite me?” Kageyama asks bitterly.

“Sort of. I’m mostly doing it because my body is slowly dying, but y’know, I also hate you a lot.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, I’m sick, remember? Plus you _did_ slam me in the face with a volleyball, did you not?”

Kageyama can feel a shame-filled splash of color rise to his cheeks and tint them a shade deeper than what the wind should induce. “I said I was sorry about that.”

Hinata fixes him with an expression not too unlike that of a child that had just eaten a lemon. “No you didn’t. You literally looked me straight in the eye and said ‘no’ when I asked if you were.”

“Stop leaning on me like a sack of potatoes.”

“Stop throwing volleyballs at my face.”

“Dumbass.”

“Jerkface.”

By the time they reach the doorstep, Kageyama’s arm feels numb from trying to balance Hinata’s entirety on it. The boy’s mother greets them at the door with mild confusion, which Hinata explains in brief. Kageyama is regarded with the kind of warmness that all mother’s greet their children’s friends with, which he returns with a minimalistic smile. He declines her offer to come inside, stating simply that he had to return home before too long. Hinata flashes him a weak smile, attempting to stuff all his regular mischievous glee into it and failing, before disappearing out of sight.

When the door is closed and Kageyama is on his way, he can’t help but notice that his footsteps feel light, lighter than when Hinata had been leaning on him. He missed that weight in an odd way, because that weight was also warmth in the form of a small human, who generally regarded him as an equal, but who sometimes would make his heart burst with comments that indicated he wanted him, like “Toss to me!” and “One more!”

Kageyama shakes his head out of the clouds, and Hinata out of his head, feeling the rain return in heavy drops that soak his hair before he realizes he left his umbrella leaning up against the side of Hinata’s house.

 _Dumbass._ He didn’t know if he was thinking of Hinata or not when he thought that.  


\--

Hinata was absent from class the next day, and the day after that.

The first day he was gone, practice was slow, but not impossible, and perhaps even quieter than normal. Kageyama liked to think it was because Hinata’s incessant chattering wasn’t present, but it was likely that whenever he was there, the pair were constantly exchanging words, either neutral game-talk or bitter accusations and taunts. There was no inbetween. So, it was kind of nice to not have to be distracted by an orange ball of fluff and energy.

The air held in it a sort of slow lethargy to it, however; a drag that hung around everyone’s ankles and kept them from moving the way Kageyama was used to. Not everyone on the team was as fast as Hinata. None of them were, in fact. But he didn’t mind passing to any of them, knowing it was less for their practice at spikes and more for his accuracy in throws. He found himself growing antsy as time progressed, regardless, just wanting them to _move_ , go _faster_ , run and jump the way Hinata did and save him the effort of relaxing and then recalibrating after every turn.

He keeps his mind cool somehow, blessing the heavens silently when practice is done, and then kicking himself because how could he like the fact that he didn’t have to play volleyball anymore that evening?

It rains the next day, sheets of rain coming down hard and choppy in the morning before easing up around lunch time, persistent droplets still falling hard and burdening the growing plant life outside with more than enough water to sustain it for a month.

Though weather normally didn’t affect practice, Daichi informs the team as they gather in the club room that Ukai wouldn’t be coming since he “doesn’t feel like going out in a damn flash flood” and that it might be best if the team took a break for the day.

Suga’s mother (Kageyama thought Suga was being redundant when he said “my mother” then realized that he doesn’t actually revere _himself_ as the team mom), upon him telling her of Hinata’s illness, had sent him to school with something for the boy, probably food, in a small canvas sack.

Unsure of why, Kageyama volunteers once more to make the trek to Hinata’s house and deliver it to him. He doesn’t much like the way that Suga gives him a coy smile and vivaciously accepts the offer, making the raventte’s mind prickle with unease and insecurity. What did Suga think of him volunteering to be helpful? Was he just amused because it was so absurd or did he have some kind of skewed idea? Kageyama never gets the chance to ask.

Hinata’s house isn’t far out of his way, but reluctancy and indignation still plague Kageyama as he turns left instead of right along the route he takes to get home, the tapering mist pattering on his umbrella not doing all that much to wash away his reservations.

Whatever Suga’s mother had made was still warm, and had been handed to Kageyama with the words “it’s a bit of healing,” though he didn’t quite know what that meant. All he knew was that it was a haven to his chilly hand and he was probably not going to want to let it go when the time came.

Hinata’s house must’ve moved away a few miles in the rain because Kageyama doesn’t remember it taking him this long to get there. His puddle-soaked shoes and frigid skin that his windbreaker did nothing to warm might have something to do with that, but whatever. It was still Hinata’s fault somehow.

The clouds are thick and soupy in the sky when Kageyama reaches Hinata’s doorstep, but he’s greeted with no rain on his head when he pulls his umbrella away, surprising and relieving him. The experience he’s greeted to when the door is opened is not so desirable.

Hinata still looks like he’d been through hell and back, and Kageyama has to swallow the biting urge to remark on it. The smaller boy’s eyes are glazed over, eyebrows pinched a bit as he looks over Kageyama, seemingly trying to register fully his presence.

“Hey,” he croaks out, and now Kageyama really feels bad for him.

“Hi.”

Silence wasn’t meant to hold this much awkward.

“I brought healing.” Kageyama tries. Hinata blinks.

“I meant… Suga.” Kageyama tries again. Oh, he can just feel himself dying on the inside.

His soul is saved when Hinata hums out a laugh, opening the door a little wider. “Yeah, sure, okay. Just come inside before you catch a cold, too.”

Balking slightly, Kageyama nods curtly as he steps inside, warmth of the house bouldering into him and making him realize exactly how cold he was standing on the front porch.

Hinata’s house hasn’t changed since the last time Kageyama had been inside of it (not that he’d expect it to). It’s still homely, cool-colored walls juxtaposing the warm atmosphere. The whole place smells like steamed rice, the aroma swelling and twining with that of sharper ones, like pepper and soy, wasabi and vegetable stock. It reminds Kageyama of an old, dead memory from before he was old enough to know what his own mind was, and it makes him happy to experience it again, and sad that he couldn’t compare it to the original just to see which was superior.

Kageyama pulls himself out of his own musings as he kicks off his shoes, handing Hinata the bag. In the light, he can see now that Hinata doesn’t look as bad as he had before. By a longshot, in fact. The bags under his eyes were considerably less noticeable, and he was actually breathing (with effort) through his nose. He might even be able to pass for a healthy person in public.

Accepting the bag gingerly and pulling on the drawstring to open it without waiting to hear more about what it was, Hinata reaches in and pulls out a thermos, which he regards as excitedly as he can. “What’s in it?” he asks.

Kageyama answers with raised eyebrows and a shrug of one shoulder, setting his bag down. “Suga-san brought it in for you. He said his mother made it.”

Hinata wasn’t even listening as he set the bag down and twisted the cap of the thermos open, cooing with glee as a wash of steam came up to wisp about his face, licking at his cheeks. Kageyama doesn’t even need him to say it, because he can smell the aroma from where he stands.

“Miso~!” Hinata sings in a croaky voice, drawing out the syllables. Kageyama stuffs jealousy back down where it rises in his gut. Lucky sick bastard.

Hinata ushers the dark-haired setter further inside, disappearing into the kitchen with the thermos. Kageyama is about to follow him before recalling that he’d brought work for Hinata to do, so he turns back to retrieve a folder and a book from his bag.

A nearly erotic moan sounds off elsewhere, and Kageyama can only assume that it means the miso is good. His hypothesis is proved correct when he turns the corner into the kitchen and finds Hinata trying to shove the entire bowl down his throat.

“When you’re done choking yourself,” the dark-haired boy snaps, trying to get Hinata’s attention, “I brought some of the work you missed.”

Hinata’s eyes grow wide and hurt. “Why would you go and do that?” he asks solemnly, mouth full. Kageyama considers knocking his head, but settles for an intensified glare.

“Just take a look through it, okay? It’s math, biology, and English. It’s not that hard.” He pulls a few papers out the folder, setting them on the counter along with the book they had to read for English class.

Curiously and with the thermos still in hand, Hinata places the spoon in his mouth, holding it there between his pursed lips as he crosses over to where Kageyama is, brushing him out of the way to open the book and leaf through it.

“What’s it called?” he asks, obviously not reading the title. Kageyama answers shortly with the name, “Dreamhunter.”

Hinata groans a bit, and Kageyama semi-sympathizes when he complains, “I don’t want to read English.”

“Neither do I, dumbass, but we all have to,” he retorts icily. Sympathy aside, he didn’t feel like listening to the other complain. Hinata pulls the spoon out his mouth, pouting and glaring at the book with much more scorn than it deserved.

And then, in a brilliant flash of what Kageyama thinks to this day was a cosmic amount of stupidity and genius on Hinata’s part, the sickly orange fluffball turns to him with eyes like dull granite and says, groggily, “Read to me.”

The response is clear and obvious: “No.”

Begging ensues, and Kageyama starts to wonder if Hinata was even still sick, because the way he was rattling on made it seem as if his throat didn’t hurt anymore.

Begrudgingly and not without flicking Hinata’s warm forehead a few times, Kageyama follows him into the living room with the book in his hand, sitting down.

“You’re going to owe me for this one, dumbass,” he spits, opening the front cover and leafing to the first page, curling the front portion of the book around the spine in a way that would make most librarians cringe in agony. Hinata bounces to his side, buoying down next to him and nestling uncomfortably close.

“When I’m better, I’ll work on serves with you until I can’t lift my arms,” he offers. Kageyama has half a mind to snap that he doesn’t even think Hinata is sick anymore, but he keeps quiet on the matter, not wanting to argue it.

Albeit half-assed and with intense disdain, Kageyama manages to churn out the first sentences of the book. “‘On a late w-winter night, the Iz– Isle of the Temple lay ku– quiet, streets empty and shimmering. The moon was the t-top of the sky, and the dew had set as fu– frost on copper roofs, iron rare– railings, and window glass.’”

Hinata is already interrupting him with questions, a bit of rice falling out his mouth as he speaks. “What does ‘shimmering’ mean?”

Kageyama scowls at the word in response. “It means the same as ‘shining,’ or like, ‘glistening’. Like moonlight on water. Are you gonna let me read this?”

Muttering a sarcastic apology, Hinata sets his drained thermos down on the coffee table and curls up further into Kageyama’s side.

It didn’t irk him, persay, or even really bother him in any way, that Hinata did this, since their relationship was one based on contact. Kageyama would ruffle Hinata’s hair when he thought it was deserved, Hinata would put his hand on Kageyama’s shoulder to get his attention, or tug on the hem of his shirt when he was tired or wanted to talk. Their legs would touch when they sat next to each other on the bus on the way to matches, and on more than one occasion, Kageyama had used the cuff of his shirt sleeve or his thumb to wipe food off of Hinata’s cheeks and face, since the decoy had clearly never learned how to use eating utensils. So yeah, touching wasn’t that big of a deal.

So why did it feel different now? Turning the matter over in his head while he continues reading, Kageyama can only conclude that Hinata’s illness has something to do with it. The fact that he’s weaker and more vulnerable than usual, and Kageyama subconsciously feels protective of him. In hindsight, he notices that he’s been doing it all week, in his own special way. Tartly fussing at Hinata for not taking medicine, overcompensating for hurting him by sacrificing volleyball time for him, even voluntarily offering to bring him a method of feeling better.

And now, feeling this overwhelming sense of protectivity, this swell of wanting Hinata close if just to make sure that he’s doing alright. It had started as a tiny burning ember, but now the feeling in his chest could only ever be described as a flame.

“Hey, musclebrain, you in there?” A voice shatters Kageyama’s thoughts. He had stopped reading mid-sentence, lost in thought.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Kageyama insists. He continues on. “‘It had been a hard winter, the kind that k-kir-kills the old, the ill, and unlucky inu– infants, and at the Ah– Opera that night, the great dreamhunter Ts– ...Tzi-gah… Tziga Ha-meh...Hame was performing… what the hell are you doing.”

Hinata has shifted again briefly, sitting up with his shoulder pressed into the other’s and for a moment, looking at him head on. Kageyama stops again to meet his gaze, trying to glare at him. Hinata’s eyes are glassy still, but as strong and handsome as ever. He doesn’t say anything as he shifts once more down, nudging Kageyama’s elbow up with his head and resting his cheek on the other’s leg. His hand finds its way to Kageyama’s head, which the ravenette is taken aback by but doesn’t shift away from immediately.

Hinata’s hand is warm on his cool skin, but it’s not the kind of clammy warmth that Kageyama usually earns the privilege of feeling when they high-five or touch hands accidentally on the court. It’s warm and dry and smooth and very much Hinata’s, and it’s _messing with Kageyama’s mind something fierce._

“Seriously, idiot, is this some kind of diversion tactic?” Kageyama quips as evenly as he can. _Calm down, dumbass,_ he snaps at himself.

“I’m just checking to see if you feel warm,” is the innocent-enough response.

“What does that even mean?”

“I wanna make sure you didn’t catch my cold. Plus your head is really cold and my hands are too hot and it feels nice.”

“Those are two completely juxtaposing reasons to grope my forehead.”

“It’s mostly the second reason.”

“You asked me to do one job here, Hinata, can you let me do it?”

Hinata huffs gently, removing his hand and letting it flop back down to join its twin. Kageyama’s all set to get to it again, fulfilling the parameters of staring daggers at the cute sunflower child’s temple and breathing in indignantly when Hinata interrupts him again.

“Kageyama?”

“What is it now?”

“Thank you.”

“...what?”

Hinata shifts to his back, staring up into Kageyama’s eyes, amber on churning ocean blue. “Thank you. For everything. For taking me home the other day, for bringing me food today, for staying here… it’s nice to know that the team still cares. And that you care, more importantly. I mean, I know you care, in your own stupid way. But it’s nice to see it. And it’s nice to see you.”

Kageyama can practically feel his little grinch heart inflating like a balloon. He wanted to say of course he would be there, idiot, of course he cares. Hinata is an important asset, he’s an important teammate, he’s an important friend.

His tongue is too thick and his mind too blank to do that. He gets tunnel vision, the only thing in his view being Hinata’s dry smirk, the light of his eyes and the crinkles that furrow in the skin around them when the apples of his cheeks rise.

Wetting his lips as briefly as possible, Kageyama just nods. “You’re welcome,” he manages, the words heavy.

Hinata smiles again, turning his head; this time, it’s to the softness of Kageyama’s sweater. He nuzzles the cloth as he shifts some more, finally stilling as he gets comfortable. He shuts his eyes and murmurs through fabric: “Keep going.”

Kageyama still isn’t sure about the whole touching thing, but he knows that whatever the hell Hinata is doing is _not helpful_ with the whole “calming down” thing.

Clearing his throat and wondering he was still even doing this (it’s not like Hinata is even listening to his likely completely incorrect pronunciation of English), Kageyama continues.

“‘The invalid had been gr-gravely ill but was better and was to be ah-lowed… allowed out. He was to take the air. But he wasn’t just lifted into a wh-heel… wheelchair and wheeled into a garden.’”

The story continues until Kageyama reaches the end of the prologue on page five, looking down at Hinata in his lap and waiting for him to say something.

The miso must have gotten to him first, however, because Hinata’s breathing is low and steady, mouth open slightly as he breathes in through it. His hands rest together in front of his chest, fingers curled and brushing Kageyama’s thigh. They twitch infinitesimally but do not move otherwise.

_He fell asleep._

Kageyama sighs through his nose, shutting the book and setting it to his other side. He drapes his hand timidly over Hinata’s shoulder, the ginger’s skin warm even through fabric, and lets it inch toward his back. His fingers lay idle, waiting to come in contact with the heat again, but they never do.

He sighs once again. So yeah, maybe this feeling of wanting to protective of Hinata wasn’t new. Maybe it had been ingrained in him since they had first met. He couldn’t be sure. The only real thing he was sure of was that Hinata was warm, and in this moment, they were both content.

\--

“You’re sick.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Hinata looks like the sun again. His hair is light and fluffy, catching the solar rays and clutching to them as gold spins through each individual strand. His eyes are bright and radiant like washed amber, cheeks dusted with coral.

Kageyama’s nose feel like someone jammed a bunch of LEGOs up in there and just left him struggling to breathe. His throat isn’t helping the whole “breathing” thing either because every gulp of air that goes down is like swallowing a cactus. He’s not sure what hell is, but if it was anything like this, then he feels sorry for those poor souls down below.

A jagged cough forces Kageyama’s face into his jacket collar. He feels things shifting in his chest that shouldn’t be shifting and he can’t tell if thats good or bad because it feels like relief but when he finally catches his breath, it all just comes back full force. Hinata is walking beside him with his hands in his pockets, peering at him with an awfully hidden smirk on his face.

“This is payback for hitting me with a volleyball the other day,” he snips coyly, dodging easily when Kageyama reaches out with a lethargic hand to deck him in the cheek. “Maybe you should go home. Skip practice.”

“Like hell,” Kageyama snarls, sniffing and swallowing with difficulty. “I’m not skimping out on practice like you.”

“You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Good, maybe then I won’t have to deal with you anymore.”

“Oh please, you love me.”

Hinata is too slow to dodge Kageyama’s hand this time, deft fingers tangling themselves in the orange hair and pulling up and every which way. “You wish I did,” he grumbles as he lets go.

 _Only,_ he reminds himself, _I probably do._


End file.
